Names define us
by ar-men15
Summary: A AU that can become quite strange, a suspension of disbelief...
1. Chapter 1

REVELATIONS AND CONFESSIONS

"Claire, what are you doing here?"  
Claire had stopped her car in front of a private entrance when she had spotted her sister walking away from the bus stop.  
"It's impossible to stay with godmother and dad dancing cheek to cheek and all the crazy family. I need air. Wanna a lift?"  
"Sure thanks."  
She hold the statue in her lap while clicking the seat belt.  
"Where did our priest go? Aunt Phillyda saw how good looking our priest is and started babbling about her sister in law who married an Anglican one and what a waste of men our church is."  
The pressure of fingers on the feminine curves of the statue made the knuckles white. A sigh. A sob.  
"What's wrong? The marriage is done, Godmother is happy and won't stress us again, for a while I hope."  
Thick silence you could walk over it.  
"So what? Did the stupid bird cut your tongue?"  
"Claire promise to keep it secret. Over mom's grave, promise!"  
Claire nodded, what else could she do, seeing black make up dilued tears streaming over her sister's face, like a line traced by a little kid with insecure fingers.  
"Me and him had sex last night."  
"Him ..who?"  
"Our priest. Shit! Don't stop so fast. Ouch, my poor neck."  
"Sorry."  
Claire found a 30 min parking space along the street and got out to put a coin into the machine; she had no courage to drive again soon, fearing to listen to what her sister was going to confess.

"You need a break from here and ..from him."  
"I told you we parted amicably."  
"You cannot see him again. It's too…"  
At a loss for words, Claire made a quick mental refresh of the Oxford dictionary.  
"Too impossible!" she blurted out at least. "And you don't want to see him, do you?"  
"It hurts. He says it will pass, but for now it hurts like hell."  
"Good, I know the right place. My Yoga teacher…"  
"Do you Yoga?"  
"There's so many things you ignore about me. My master goes once a year to a small resort in the Welsh moor, peaceful, calm, vegetarian cuisine, long walks, a swimming pool. Attending to meditation classes is not an obligation."  
Claire replied to every attempt to undermine her idea: the coffee was already closed for the wedding weekend, a convenient bank holiday in the coming week and sally could manage the coffee for two days alone, so she could take the whole week off.  
A quick call to the yoga teacher and another to the resort reserved a single room, the most isolate and quiet.  
"I still don't know if it is a good idea, I want to be alone."  
"It's not a Ibiza beach bar, you can have your privacy, you can also give a fake name."  
"Names defines us."  
"So, how do you want to be called there?"  
"Magdalen."  
"Ok Magdalen, let's go to your flat, pack a bag and tomorrow morning you new life will start."

"Sister Angela?"  
The high pitched voice of the bishop's private secretary summoned into the office a tall nun, dressed in a well tailored blue suit, matching in style and elegance the one of her director.  
Her face expressionless, her lips so thin to disappear in the hole of the mouth.  
"Yes, father John."  
"Our brother here needs a confession. Father Patrick?  
"He's practicing with the choir for tomorrow concert, he doesn't want to be disturbed."  
"Father William?"  
"He's gone out to convert the sinners at the betting agency."  
The secretary's face showed concern, he didn't want to confess himself, Sister Angela knew it well.  
"There's the bishop, he was in the orchard tending to his roses. The flowers show is in two weeks."

"My son, you celebrated a wedding in a state of disgrace! Thank God the spouses were unaware or it could be considered null."  
The bishop posed the garden scissor and the thick glove.  
"So you ask forgiveness for your sins? Do you repent them?"  
"I do."  
There was nothing else to say to your bishop, he couldn't say how deep he felt connected with his beautiful atheist, not only for the sex but for the human presence she offered him.  
"Did you sinned only once with her?"  
"What do you mean? I've been with her a night only."  
"You coupled only once?"  
He shook his head.  
"How many and how?"  
"Why? I've told you I betrayed my chastity, what else do you want to know?"  
"There's a different punishment depending on positions and repetitions. You know well, don't waste the seed."

The secretary took a few sheets and a pen to the bishop, who completed a list of prayers and lectures and passed it to the priest.  
"Well, this punishment will do you goof, here is the list."  
The secretary bowed his head close to the bishop's ear and whispered something.  
The older men nodded and so the secretary spoke.  
"Outside confession, there's the problem of your position as a priest. So father John is here, you think she'll suit you? Go to the press? We need to be extra careful, nowadays. It's better you go to one of our places to reflect for a little while."  
The bishop added maximum discretion was important so he had to hide with everyone his destination and the reason behind it.  
"And Pam, my helper in the parish? "  
"Simply tell her you're going to your annual retire, as lots of priests do. We'll send a substitute for you there."  
The priest appeared resigned.  
"So when and where do I have to go?"  
"Immediately, father John himself will drive you there, don't worry, he tells me it's a lovely place in Wales."


	2. Chapter 2

PEACE

Claire was right, the soft hills and valleys were so enchanting she thought they weren't real. From a family that never loved or appreciated open spaces, whose holidays were spent in crowded Mediterranean sea villages.

Travelling with her sister had been good, something they could - should - try again soon. Talking with her, no need of strange friends with Claire. Once the cafè was in safe hand and Hilary, too, she felt free.

Paying taxes to protect areas of outstanding beauty had suddenly a new meaning, she felt proud to be British. A country that created a empire had the awareness to protect its home land.

Waking up inside a charming simple little room, all in tones of lavender, a bowl of fresh fruits on the table, a cup of tea to drink - a special Indian blend - she felt cocooned by the light of the rising sun from the window facing east.

She seldom experienced a similar peace. She wore the soft two pieces robe in organic cotton the kind man, who welcomed her when Claire left, suggested to use, with her name on it. Something that made a garment very personal, very belonging to, said at the girl the old sewing machine while she swiftly added the name on the t shirt.

The people she met at dinner were from various parts of England, mostly for the Yoga lessons, but also normal folks, just in need of a break for themselves.

The yoga adepts were easily identifiable, calm, relaxed, a low tone of voice. She felt a twinge of envy toward them, if they could keep that inner peace always, all her years of bed hopping and fears avoiding could have been spent better. And her tennis lesson less in need of the hairdresser for her sweating head. Conversation about life and love and all the major issues of every human being, including the weather, lasted until midnight on deck chairs around the swimming pool, avoiding the chill with plaids and some mild herbal drinks.

The place inspired her only positive sensations.

Little bells hung over outside the bedroom doors, swinging with the gently morning breeze and creating a melody comparable the sounds of nature outside.

A man with a long white beard noticed she was listening to the birds' sing and place his book on the table he was sitting at under the long porch along the bedrooms doors.

"Is it lovely, isn't it?"

"Indeed."

"You see, Magdalen – by the way, lovely name you have - this place is on the migratory route so twice every year we hosts a lot of friends with wings."  
"In London we forget how birds are, we see pigeons and seagulls only."

"If you want, we'll show you later the observation point. My wife is an amateur birdwatcher."

After light breakfast in the main building, she was tempted to try a lesson, various guests were already on the grass with mats; she asked the women at the reception, whose white vaporous hair could make her pass for the Queen's younger sister, but whose name, Hilda seemed too strong and in contrast with her personality.

"Sure you can, Joanne starts in half an hour and does part of the grass, part in the water."

"Cold water? It's the opposite of relaxation."

"The water isn't cold, Magdalen, there are little hot springs here, we use them, they have no healing power but hey hep relax a lot. You can do the path to the springs, there is a little chapel very charming."

No chapels, please, she had enough of churches and their inhabitants.

Hilda offered her a map of the pedestrian walks in the resort area, the list of endangered floral species and instructions on how to preserve the natural reserve.

"You can wander as you like. The village is five miles south, there's the ford to follow that lead to the springs, the wild lily valley is a little gem, westward. To get there, you have to pass close to our neighbours."

The presence of other people seems so absurd, in a landscape so deprived of traces of human life.

"I don't see houses from here."

"It's not so close, a ex military camp, a shooting range If I remember well. Now it is used for troubled teens, half military, half religious. They are counselled and taught to become better people."

"You disagree the method? I see you face."

"Maybe I don't agree wholly on it, they are kept inside, the space is big but for me they could feel better at close contact with nature. Nevertheless, you can pass the area without troubles and go see the lilies. It's worth the view."

Hilda recommended to took her phone when leaving and offered outdoor clothes, rain could caught by surprise a walker and it was better to be equipped.


	3. Chapter 3

CH 3

IT ONCE WAS

The suspension of the old jeep had been worn off by a life of trail over stones and ground holes, the priest thought.  
Twenty eight interminable minutes on the back seat, since father John left him in the hands of two bearded men who stuffed the jeep with boxes, barely leaving a small spot for him; then they sat at the two front seats and talked in an unintelligible language all the time. The jeep passed through few small villages, scattered farms, road signs not in English and then left the paved road.  
When the back door eventually was opened to let the priest out, after discarding half of the boxes - that seemed more important than giving space to the passenger - he found himself in the middle of a squared area surrounded by military barracks, two on each side. The jeep soon turned and left and a tall man walked toward him, dressed with military clothes, red hair betraying an Irish heritage. A silver cross was pinned on the jacked he wore, just above his heart.  
"You're the one from London?"  
The priest looked around, no one else was close to be addressed so.  
The tall man stopped in front of him, his face has so many wrinkles and freckles it was impossible to define his age.  
"Yes, I am."  
"We'll call you by your town name. Give me your bag."  
He passed the bag, full of books he planned to read, grabbed in a hurry from his home library while father John's inquisitive eyes never abandoned him.  
"Your things aren't useful here. Go through that green door, there's the wardrobe. Strip to socks and underwear and dress what Peter gives you. Now! Hurry up!"  
The tall man used a silver whistle and a face appeared from the window beside the green door.  
"Peter, he's London, give him clothes and check he has nothing personal with him. No phone, he can keep his watch only."  
"But my books.."  
The priest tried to claim back his beloved friends, the idea to being deprived of the pleasure of reading seemed terrible.  
"I'll keep them, you have to work here. Not a holiday. and it's yes, sir or yes, father Benjamin."  
"Yes."  
"Yes what?"  
"Yes sir."  
When Peter had finished with him, Father Benjamin took London to the kitchen, in the barrack beside the warehouse.  
A black man with muscles and some tattoo approached the duo from a desk at the kitchen entrance.  
"James, here's our new guest, introduce him to the rules. I'll see you later." Father Benjamin left without giving the priest time to ask what was happening.  
The black man - the letters SGT J on his left breast pocket, under a small red cross - spoke first.  
"You can call me sergeant. My grade in the royal navvy. follow me to your cell."  
A monk cell, a 3*2 cubicle with a window to high to see through, a small bed and a foot stole under the cross; a bare lamp and a empty metal locker where he put the underwear change.  
The priest looked at the sergeant with a desperate face: this was hell, not a place to think about his future life.  
"Rules are simple. The call is at 5 a.m. you'll pray in the church until six, then there's breakfast to prepare and daily chores. In the morning and afternoon you can have a free hour outside."  
"I was told I had to go to a place to meditate, not a military camp."  
"You're here to be tested, brother, you failed and this is obedience only. Our wows are simple, aren't they?"  
London bowed his head, he has promised his bishop obedience.  
They returned to the kitchen, where three men now were standing between the fires; James sat again at hid desk.  
"For today just look and learn. Dinner is an hour. You'll serve food, too."  
Silence was the rule, the priest was instructed, one of the boys would read from the bible.  
The priest watched, how the cooks managed to prepare the simple choice of food, what seemed abundant rations: a bowl of a thick soup, followed by sausages and mash, water only to drink – a little G&T would have been helpful to digest - a strange jelly dessert he planned to refuse.  
When the bell rang, a hundred of boys of various age, height, skin colour entered the refectory and London was too concentrate don serving food to forget where he was.  
The cooks ate after all the others, keeping their portions heated; Father Benjamin eyed the newcomer for the whole dinner and his disapproving look was so convincing London cleaned his food; the cleaning was fast and efficient, the other three men were silent and concentrated on the task. London noticed each had the same red cross of the sergeant and touched his own breast pocket, sure to find the same on himself. So they were all priests.  
The boys gathered in the small square in the middle of the barracks, chatting and playing with some rugby or football balls, until at eight the last bell rang and all the people left hurriedly the central square.  
London looked around, unsure of what to do, then the sergeant called him and with his hand showed him the way to his cell.


	4. Chapter 4

CH 4

Floating in the warm water was so good, a blissful sensation of peace enveloped her, only a cd with relaxing music at a low volume from a stereo hidden somewhere was interrupting the chirping of the birds and the occasional jingle of the bells all around the place.  
She was not alone in the swimming pool but it felt it was reserved for her only.  
Joanne – the teacher – had a voice and a way with words she was able to soothe her tormented soul.  
When the lesson began, her mind could not concentrate on the positions she was asked to perform, the priest's face was rooted in her brain, the evening they met, the time spent in his garden, at the cafè, the final parting at the bus stop.  
She wanted to cry, it hurt, so much, but she was supposed to be silent, following Joanne's lead, so she kept tears inside. Until – a few minutes or maybe an hour after – she woke up from the meditation with a clean and free mind.  
She felt ethereal, her soul had quieted and her body too.  
When Joanne prompted the group to bathe it was like a rebirth, a nw start, she cut off all memories and recollection, her family, her life and her work.

Becoming a Buddhist suddenly appeared interesting, a different kind of religion, faith and devotion. She felt stronger an ready to take in the afternoon one of the walks Hilda had suggested.

Father Benjamin took the priest apart after breakfast.  
"We want to see if you can maintain your wow in the future. Regarding the boys the method can be not orthodox but they are here, not in juvenile hall. We try to help them, we give them rules they can follow for a different kind of life."  
The priest tried to hide is amusement at the notion of orthdodoxy.  
"The results are proven good. Now you have your morning free time. Go to the sergeant at the gate."  
James took from his pocket a small timer, set it on 60 minutes and handed it to the priest.  
"You're back at my desk before it expires, or today you'll clean all the kitchen by yourself. Understood?"  
"Yes sir. And, sir?" He looked around at the nature surrounding him. "Are there foxes around?"  
"Foxes? They are everywhere in England. Why do you ask?"  
"We're in Wales, sir."  
"This is a fucking island! Foxes can travel. Are you afraid? Shout and they'll run away."  
The gate opened and he was out, alone. He never felt freedom was so important. He breathed again, started walking; he was scared, fuckingly unsure of what to do, where to go. In the end he just followed the wired fence of the camp until he reached the woods, then got back.  
He wondered if the other priests were out, but no one was in sight. Were they scared or bored or resigned by now? For how long he'd confined there?

The preparation of lunch was a repetition of what London witnessed at dinner; hamburger and peas as the main course, another a holy lecture from a different reader.  
He was ordered to control the peas, a sea of green balls swimming in the tomato sauce.  
The other cooks in the kitchen weren't eager to talk, the sergeant observed from his desk, full of sheets in neat precision. There was a middle aged man from Manchester, whose red nose and cheeks betrayed his addiction.  
A fat man with a strong Scottish accent, named Carlisle, and another whose skin revealed Caribbean origins were both around his own age  
London's timid attempts at conversation failed in a thick silence, Kingston was the most reserved of the group, his face a mask, he barely spoke two words.  
The priest resigned, controlled the grill and imagined to be at the parish summer fair, in front of the large BBQ, while the altar boys and girls were around him to receive their share.

After lunch he craved a cigarette, he needed it, like he needed too many other things and people, too. He left the kitchen and wondered how to get busy somehow.  
A boy with light olive skin and moustaches – a product more of adolescence than of a conscious choice – was sitting on a chair outside the kitchen, his face hidden between the knees, swinging very slowly  
The priest looked at him for a little while.  
Seldom he saw sadness and impotence so mixed up. Hallo he said in a low voice.  
The boy moved, surprised someone was addressing him  
"You re talking with me?"  
"There's me and you only. You seem in need of help."

"I don't want to be here."  
"I suspect few people like places like this."  
"Do you?"  
"Not at all, but we're stuck here."  
"You're ..a priest, aren't you?"  
"I'm not perfect, maybe."  
"At school, a classmate passed me a knife, he had to get rid of it. I didn't want it, I spoke aloud and the principal saw me and …it was not my fault, but since my dad had a bad record and is often in jail they sent me here."  
"No one believed you?"  
"No! and my mother is always drunk so they think I'm a piece of shit. I didn't want the knife, I swear, and now my life is more fucked up than before."


End file.
